


Leave in Summer, Yet You're in My Thoughts

by yoshizora



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Post-Black Eagles Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 02:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20202475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: After the war ends, Dorothea declares that she intends to leave Fódlan.Meanwhile, Ingrid says her farewells.





	Leave in Summer, Yet You're in My Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!!!!! i have never written any fire emblem before so go easy on me
> 
> i played edelgard's route, and i'm nearing the end of the blue lions route. this is supposed to take place after edelgard's route with the dorothea/petra ending. isn't it messed up how ingrid doesn't have any A support endings with any girls? yeah?? 
> 
> the title doesn't mean anything sorry

Visiting the capital didn’t seem like the best of ideas. Things have just barely begun to settle down— _barely_, with people still struggling and bearing the weight of consequences they did nothing to earn. But people are tenacious and life must go on as normal.

So, when Ingrid caught wind of the Mittelfrank Opera Company’s grand comeback, she just had to go see for herself. For the sake of that normalcy.

And because of the invitation delivered to her doorstep, beautiful wispy handwriting in dark ink tracing out a greeting and her name in neat curls: _My dear Ingrid._ How could she ignore such a thing? Ingrid keeps the invitation in her breast pocket, its folds already worn down and the paper dangerously thin. It’s noisy and crowded and she wouldn’t even be able to guess that these cheery people are rebuilding their lives that had been torn apart by the war. Up ahead, the opera house stands proud against a clear sky.

Beside her, Felix curls his upper lip in contempt.

“Thank you, for coming with me,” Ingrid says, for what’s probably the fifth or sixth time.

“This is a waste of time.”

“Oh, please. Do you really believe that?”

He obviously does, so there’s no need for him to say it out loud. Still, he follows Ingrid as she pushes through a mingling crowd in front of the entrance, and doesn’t say anything but slightly nods when she pays for both their tickets.

They both have many, many things to do back in their former homes. Ingrid also knows this is… a waste of time. Or, rather, it’s a poor use of her time, when her family’s territory is still barren and House Fraldarius is on the verge of falling apart with all but the youngest son dead in the dirt. What used to be Faerghus is in a state of disarray, already being ironed out by the Empire’s palm.

That Galatea and Fraldarius are even intact after all that’s been done can’t even be called a miracle, simply an act of faith and goodwill by the new Emperor.

Ingrid doesn’t particularly want to think about all that right now. She glances over her shoulder, just to make sure Felix is still there (he is) and squeezes through a row to their seats. To her left is a man in plainclothes; to Felix’s right is a family with two young children seated between their parents.

Dorothea had spoken of the opera like it was an affair meant for the wealthy. Maybe this is proof that things really have changed for the better with the new unification.

“Wake me up when it ends.”

“Don’t be rude, Felix.”

“I’m not interested in the show,” he says, and Ingrid pinches the bridge of her nose because he probably isn’t even _trying_ to be rude, he’s just telling a blunt truth. Felix leans back in his seat, arms crossed. “Besides, you could’ve come here on your own well enough.”

“We both needed a break.”

“Are you trying to insult me?”

“When was the last time you had a full night’s rest?”

Rather than snapping back, he’s quiet for a moment in contemplation. The show has yet to start; the theater is still lit and filled with the soft murmuring of the audience members. Finally, Felix softly exhales through his nose, and he glances at Ingrid from the corner of his eyes.

“You’re going to keep nagging me either way, so I might as well tell you. I’m abandoning my title as Duke Fraldarius.”

She straightens up in her seat. “Excuse me?”

“What’s the point of lingering in those empty halls? My family is dead. All our supporters have sworn fealty to the Empire, and only the Empire. There’s no point in clinging to a piece of land that means nothing anymore.”

“How can you say something like that?! Your father—“

“Don’t.” He bares his teeth, wrinkles deep between his brows. “Don’t talk about him.”

Rodrigue. Glenn. Just two lives among thousands and thousands lost to the flames of war. Ingrid tries to think through the muddle, the ugly haze of lingering regrets and resentment and amongst it all, a tiny seed of light that had taken root in her chest when she received the invitation from Dorothea. That’s right— she’s not here to argue with Felix, she’s here because Dorothea said she should come and see the new opera house, and the show she’d be starring in. Bringing Felix along was… just something to convince herself that this was normal. That Dorothea sent that invitation not because of… certain reasons, but simply because they’d been classmates and friends and Ingrid needed a break from her family’s affairs.

Thinking about Dorothea was the only thing that’d kept her spirits up during the months that had passed after the end of the war. She had smiled, when she took Ingrid’s hand the last time they saw each other, but her smile was sad and tired and ready to be free with a life without the need to strike down soldiers on a battlefield.

All Ingrid could think about was how _happy_ she must be now. She wants to see that smile without all that heavy weight attached to it.

Yes, bringing Felix along was a buffer. A fragment of normality when Dimitri had been slain and Sylvain was struck down by a volley of arrows, things that lurk beneath the fantasy of Dorothea’s unburdened smile. That smile shouldn’t be tainted by anything, past or present.

She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. Felix makes a noise of disgust.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“It’s nothing. So, I assume you’ll be leaving soon.”

“I would’ve left days ago, but you had to drag me out to this stupid opera.” He drums his fingers against his arms, restless in a cramped seat with no room to stretch or move. “There’s nothing left for me in Fódlan. Without a war, there’s no reason to swing my sword.”

_But the fighting is far from over,_ she wants to say, but the lights are dimming and the audience is shushing each other.

A group of singers gather upon the stage; they part to give way to a woman who takes careful, deliberate steps forward beneath the spotlight, hair shimmering and lips red.

Ingrid’s breath catches in her throat, and her eyes suddenly blur with tears.

* * *

Dorothea really wasn’t kidding when she had spoken about an opera being written of Emperor Edelgard’s unification of Fódlan. It’s… surreal, watching and listening to a watered down reenactment of the events that had brought them so much torment and uncertainty. Felix’s knuckles are white on the armrests.

When they sing of the Imperial Army marching to Fhirdiad, Ingrid searches within herself for some kind of anger, or indignation— _anything_, but all she can think of is the tremor in Dorothea’s voice.

She claps at the end of all of it, and Felix’s chin is tucked against his chest (he isn’t joining the applause, of course he isn’t). Then the show is over and everyone’s slowly shuffling to the exits.

“That _was_ a waste of time,” Felix insists, when they’re in the lobby and too many people are mingling for him to make a quick beeline out of the theater. “These people are sick— the war’s still fresh on everyone’s minds but they want to make a show out of it? It _disgusts_ me. If it doesn’t disgust you as well, then you’re just as bad as the rest of these fools.”

“It was… wasn’t…” Ingrid hesitates. No, she doesn’t like it either. But she did like it, because the theatrics were stunning and so were the singers. So was Dorothea. She squares her shoulders and stares right into Felix’s eyes. “I didn’t come here to see the show. I came here to see our friend.”

“Dorothea’s no better than the rest of them.”

“She’s your friend as well!”

“That’s what you think? She was just some girl who was always getting on my nerves.” But Felix holds a hand to his forehead, and Ingrid knows that means he sort of agrees, even if he doesn’t, and it’s a bit complicated because Felix rarely ever admits to having friends.

Dorothea is her friend. Their friend. Even if she technically only invited Ingrid.

“_There_ you are!”

Ingrid sharply inhales and turns. There she is, lips red and hair shimmering, just as she was upon that stage. Dorothea’s smile is warm as she looks between the two of them. “Why, I wasn’t expecting Felix to show up as well. Isn’t that a nice surprise?”

“I’m not sticking around,” he curtly says, not even bothering with a _hello_ or _good to see you._ “Ingrid only brought me along at her stubborn insistence. Getting her off my back would’ve been a bigger hassle.”

“Stop that. You’re exaggerating,” Ingrid says, and she looks back to Dorothea. Her chest feels lighter, though the folded invitation seems to burn in her pocket. “Dorothea… you were magnificent. It was… I’m sorry, I haven’t seen any operas before, but I enjoyed this one very much. Really, I did!”

“You’re too kind, my dear Ingrid. How about you, Felix? Do you have any comments?”

“It was a ridiculous farce of what the war really was. I thought you were smarter than that, but I guess I was wrong if you willingly took part in this stupidity.”

The corners of her lips drop into a frown, and Dorothea threads her fingers together. Ingrid is quick to jump to her defense: “_Felix!_”

“If you can’t bear hearing the truth, then you should’ve just let me stay in what’s left of Faerghus instead of dragging me all the way here.”

Dorothea lays a hand on Ingrid’s arm. “No, it’s alright, he has a point. I did think it was still much too early to make an opera about such recent events. The wounds haven’t healed over for everyone… mmh, I know that feeling very well.”

Felix is practically seething with anger. Ingrid _knows_ why, but she can’t bear the look on Dorothea’s face, nor does she want to agitate Felix any further. That hand on her arm is warm, and she instinctively covers it with her own. “Go home, Felix. Go home and pack your bags and leave Fódlan like you said you would.”

His expression softens. Barely. “… I won’t be returning.”

“I know,” Ingrid whispers. “Because there’s nothing left for you here. Just go, Felix.”

“Wait, what did you say? Felix, are you—“

“Goodbye, Ingrid. Dorothea.”

She doesn’t realize she’s gripping Dorothea’s hand until Felix’s tall stature disappears from view, and they can no longer see him over the crowd.

* * *

The café Dorothea brings her to is small and cozy and well-hidden amongst the crowded stalls and shops, its entrance easy to miss when shouting merchants are vying for passerby attention outside. Enbarr is alive and thriving; one wouldn’t think that the Empire had just recently been at war, when passing through the lively streets. Dorothea holds a cup of tea between her hands, and Ingrid does the same.

“So,” Dorothea begins, clearly wanting to ask what had just happened with Felix. But she bites back the questions and instead gazes at Ingrid’s face, searching for bags beneath her eyes or wrinkles around her brow. “How have you been, Ingrid?”

“Well enough,” Ingrid sighs. “Galatea is in quite a state. My father is caught between groveling at the Empire’s feet and cursing the Emperor’s name. Considering what happened to House Gautier and House Fraldarius, he doesn’t know whether to be grateful or insulted that he made it through the war.”

“Ahh…” Dorothea nods, the steam from her tea wispy around her nose.

Ingrid inwardly winces. Dorothea probably doesn’t want to talk about war stuff, and the aftermath of the war, and the effects of the war.

“My pegasus nearly stepped on a mouse the other day!” She blurts out. “She took off into the sky with such a frightful sound, I thought she’d been somehow wounded.”

Dorothea stares for a moment, then giggles behind the rim of her cup. “All because of a _mouse?_”

“It— she must have been startled. I’m not sure.” Ingrid isn’t quite sure why she’s suddenly nervous, either. She takes a slow sip of her tea and takes a deep breath. “How about you, Dorothea? The opera company seems to be coming along quite nicely.”

“Yes… truth be told, I was hoping Manuela would return,” she says. “But she was firm about staying at Edie’s side as a royal physician. It’s alright, though. She’s doing important work.”

“I- I see.”

“It’s as if I’m back to those old days again,” Dorothea says, twirling a strand of hair around a finger. “I was about seventeen when Manuela left the Mittelfrank Opera Company, and was suddenly pushed forward as the star of the show. It didn’t last long, of course. I found my way to Garreg Mach really not long after that. It just didn’t seem _right_, being up on that stage alone without her.”

“And what about now?”

Dorothea’s smile is reminiscent of the one she remembers, the one that’s entirely too sad on its own.

“I might leave again.”

“Oh.”

“I’m serious.”

“I wasn’t— I believe you!” Ingrid says, and she puts down her tea because her palms are suddenly beginning to sweat badly. “You’re leaving the opera… will you be returning to Edelgard, then?”

“No, but I did consider it.” Her eyes cast downward. “I think… I may follow Felix’s lead, and leave Fódlan altogether.”

Something drops heavy into the hollow of her chest. Ingrid swallows with some difficulty, that invitation in her breast pocket burning a square through the cloth of her shirt and into her skin. Leaving? She’s _leaving?_

“And you’re serious.”

“Yes.” Dorothea looks up at Ingrid, beneath her eyelashes. “To Brigid.”

“Brigid?”

“Petra has officially become its queen. I’d like to… I want to be at her side. I know she wants to declare independence from the Empire.”

“But surely it can’t be too difficult of a task for her at all, right? Petra had always been close companions with Edelgard, from my understanding.”

Her heart is racing and she doesn’t know why. She’s leaving. Dorothea is leaving. Not in the way Felix is leaving, because a part of Ingrid had always expected the day he would leave his life of nobility behind to answer his true calling as a mercenary. Dorothea is leaving Fódlan because… because…

Because she wants to be with Petra. Because she needs to be? No, that can’t be right.

“Even so, there are… formalities, and such.” Dorothea waves a hand. “Oh, I don’t know. I never liked getting involved with politics.”

“When you say you want to be at her side…”

“Petra is very, very dear to me,” she softly says.

Should she be angry? Maybe she should be angry. But she isn’t, just sort of… disappointed, and defeated, and Ingrid stares down at her tea while trying not to think about the possibility of that curt farewell being the last she’d ever see of Felix. Of course it wouldn’t be. They’d cross paths again, surely.

So why, when she thinks of Dorothea leaving…

“Did you invite me all the way here just to tell me that?” Her hands tremble around the cup. She can’t make eye contact with Dorothea.

“Of course not! I wanted you to see the opera.”

“Dorothea…”

“Fódlan is in good hands. I trust Edie to do the right thing, now that the hard parts are over with.” She presses her lips together into a thin line. “But like I said, I never liked getting involved with politics. All of it is beyond me, you know— the new Empire, the current state of Brigid… what’s become of former Faerghus territories. No matter what, though, I just hope we can all move forward with our lives. I hope… someday, I can see you as a knight, Ingrid. You’d look so dashing, I bet.”

“You’ll be so far away.” Her voice sounds so small.

“Not _that_ far!” Finally, Dorothea laughs. She reaches across the table to touch her fingers to Ingrid’s wrist, as if that’s all she’s allowed. “Remember that time we marched all the way there to help Petra meet with her grandfather? That took less than a month.”

“But, still.” Ingrid bites her lip.

“Speaking of which, though… she’ll be arriving in Enbarr tomorrow. Let’s all meet up for tea. Just the three of us.”

“Just the three of us,” she faintly echoes.

Dorothea’s hand slides just a bit further forward, daring and cautious. “I really am glad to see you again, my dear Ingrid.”

* * *

Petra is beautiful, and regal, with a dignified air around her that’s only rivaled by Edelgard herself. She holds her head high and she walks tall and proudly, but her eyes are friendly and her arms spread in greeting when she spots Dorothea at the other side of the courtyard.

“Dorothea!”

“Petra!” Dorothea rushes right into that invitation, embracing her tightly. Ingrid catches up and simply stands there, suddenly feeling very awkward.

“I have been missing you,” Petra murmurs, just barely loud enough for Ingrid to hear.

“Please, it’s hardly been a few weeks,” Dorothea beams, and she holds Petra’s hands as she finally pulls back from the hug. “But, I will admit, I did miss you too. Couldn’t you have arrived a bit faster?”

“Ah, I hope you will be forgiving me. There were some… things that have to been taken care of, in Brigid.”

Oh, Petra knows that Dorothea doesn’t like talking about politics. She swerved around that one so easily. Ingrid awkwardly coughs into a fist, and Petra turns to her with that big smile.

“Ingrid!”

“Hello, Petra,” she respectfully bows. “Er— Your Majesty?”

She wouldn’t say Petra _isn’t_ a friend, because they’d all grown so close during those seasons of hardships, weathering through storms and battles together regardless of former house affiliations or birthplaces. But, of all the people Ingrid had gotten to know during the war, Petra had always been something of a mystery. A princess, from Brigid, who was held as something of a… token of allegiance, after their country was defeated by the Empire. Everyone liked her. Even Hubert, cold and calculating Hubert, was always more or less amicable toward her.

Now, Ingrid somewhat regrets not talking to her more during their days in Garreg Mach.

Or perhaps Petra had noticed those looks of uncertainty Ingrid gave to Dedue?

Ah, the shame and guilt still eats at her heart.

“Just Petra.” Dorothea has an arm looped through hers, now. Of course. “I am the Queen of Brigid now, yes, but I am… just Petra, still.”

“Humble as always,” Dorothea giggles. “Give yourself some credit! You’re a wonderful ruler, Petra. Everyone must already love you.”

Ingrid tries to think of something to add, but she can’t, so she simply remains quiet.

* * *

After all that’s been said and done, and after the war, Ingrid had nearly forgotten about her familial duties. But then she returned to Galatea and was greeted by her father— and by barren fields, and a childhood home that wasn’t fit to be called a noble’s domain. _Marriage_ returned to her mind, as loathe as she was to let it come back. Her father once again began wheedling her with his usual pleas and suggestions.

She was just about at the end of her wits after he’d suggested she marry _Felix_ of all people, when Dorothea’s invitation arrived by messenger.

It didn’t leave her thoughts, really. Amidst the muddle of thoughts of the war and the opera and Dorothea’s smile, Ingrid never did stop thinking about it. How could she be a knight if she disgraced her family and allowed House Galatea to fall into ruin, after all? Was it not her duty as the only daughter to produce an heir and ensure a wealthy future?

But such thoughts only brought shivers of disgust to her spine. Besides, with Edelgard dismantling that caste system Faerghus had lived by for so long, House Galatea wasn’t the only noble family that was facing uncertainty.

The war was a terrible, horrific thing, but at least Ingrid could take pride in knowing she had fought for this future where daughters wouldn’t be treated as pawns in family politics. Her father couldn’t accept that things were changing. Of course he couldn’t. Dorothea’s invitation was a blessing and an excuse for Ingrid to get away, even if it’s just for a while.

Perhaps Dorothea, too, would no longer have to concern herself with thoughts of marriage for the sake of a wealthy future.

Asking about it didn’t quite cross her mind, but Ingrid assumes it would be in bad taste anyway— considering she’s _leaving_ for _Brigid_ with _Petra._

_Queen of Brigid._

And she’s happy for Dorothea, really! The fact that she’s choosing to go of her own volition to be with Petra means a whole lot, coming from the woman who once flirted disinterestedly with men she never cared for.

Ingrid understood why she went on all those dates. It was never her place to express her disapproval, because at least Dorothea was taking the initiative to secure herself for the rest of her life.

Meanwhile, Ingrid skirted around the proposals her father brought to her, dreaming of becoming a knight.

Maybe she should just leave Fódlan altogether, like Felix did.

* * *

Dorothea excuses herself to freshen up in the powder room, which Petra doesn’t really get, but that’s alright because Dorothea is giggling too hard to properly explain. So it’s just Petra and Ingrid sitting across from each other. Ingrid tries not to look guilty when she sees Petra’s friendly smile.

“We have not spent any time together such as this, have we? Not even at the academy.”

“No, we haven’t,” Ingrid puts a small cake in her mouth to chew.

“I would be liking to know you better,” Petra continues, perfectly willing to fill in Ingrid’s silence. “I remember… five years ago, Professor brought the class to help you. A man seeking marriage was causing quite the trouble.”

“Ah. Yes. I remember that incident.” Ingrid scratches the back of her neck. She remembers dodging arrows and flying to the end of the field, but she doesn’t remember that merchant’s name. Good riddance. But she does remember that furious look on Dorothea’s face when she had learned of the proposal, and of that man’s true intentions, and it was simultaneously the most breathtaking and humorous thing in the world, seeing Dorothea angrily blasting hired swords left and right with magic while the class fought to protect Ingrid.

And afterwards, with the…

Is her face turning red? Petra is staring so intently. Must be. Ingrid self-consciously looks down.

“Dorothea has always been protective of you.”

“I know. It’s kind of embarrassing,” she exhales. “I can defend myself just fine from beasts and barbarians— especially now, after the years.”

Petra shakes her head. “Not protective from monsters, or beasts and barbarians. Protective from people.”

“I— yes, that’s what I meant.”

“Will you be okay, if I am taking Dorothea with me to Brigid? Who will protect you then?”

Ingrid bristles. “I did say I can protect myself!”

Of course she can. She’s an adult now, with nearly all the qualifications of a knight. Her father can’t force her into a marriage, not with the way the Kingdom’s territories are being sorted through by the Empire. It doesn’t matter anymore, if she marries into wealth or not. Probably.

But with the way her father had been recently talking about grandchildren…

Ingrid suddenly feels a wave of nausea rising up her stomach, disturbing the cake she’d just eaten. It must show on her face, because Petra extends a hand to place on her shoulder for reassurance.

“I am believing you _can_ protect yourself. But, please, do not let Dorothea worry too much. She cares very, very much about her friends.”

“I just…” Ingrid rests her face against her palms. “I don’t… have many close friends or relatives left. All the people I knew from my childhood are _gone._”

“We have all suffered terrible losses,” Petra solemnly nods.

“And those who are still around are going their separate ways.”

“Yes…”

“I need to find my own way too, don’t I?”

“To be a knight?”

“I— I don’t know who I would serve.”

“Edelgard, perhaps?”

That vicious, kindhearted woman, bloody in her path and ambitious in her conquest? Ingrid knew she had made the right choice when she followed the Black Eagles out of Garreg Mach, but facing Dimitri and Sylvain and Rodrigue and so many other familiar faces on the battlefields was one of the most painful things she had gone through. No, serving Edelgard would only be a reminder of those regrets she shouldn’t even have.

If there were anyone she could fight for, with all her heart and all her soul, it would be…

No, no, _no._

Ingrid thinks of Dorothea’s smile, unburdened by the weight of bloodshed.

Yes, it could only ever be her. Why must it be her? Why must she be so kind and wonderful and overbearing and loving? Why must she have brought Ingrid all the way to Enbarr, where she said her final farewell to Felix and watched an opera about the war? Why must Dorothea leave for Brigid at Petra’s side, arms linked together?

“—Ingrid?”

That wasn’t Petra. Ingrid’s head snaps up, and she realizes she’s crying as she looks up at Dorothea’s shocked expression. “Oh. Dorothea.”

“Ingrid, what’s the matter?” She kneels by her side, taking her hands in her own. Petra is already there as well, inexplicably, also kneeling, even though a Queen shouldn’t be kneeling to her. Ingrid’s stomach is feeling unsettled all over again.

Petra says something to Dorothea that sounds like too many syllables with smooth rolls of her tongue, and Ingrid realizes she must be speaking the language of Brigid. To her shock, Dorothea replies in turn, though the quick rush of syllables sound much more awkward coming from her lips.

Of course she’d be learning Brigid’s language!

“Ingrid, my Ingrid…” Dorothea cups her face, gently wiping the tears away with her thumbs.

“Please— don’t call me that. You can’t call me that anymore.”

“But you _are_ my Ingrid. You always will be, won’t you?”

She feels another hand on her upper arm. Petra’s brow is furrowed. “I am not wanting to steal the one you love away.”

“You aren’t,” she chokes out a laugh, entirely unable to bear any sort of ill will toward this beautiful, regal woman who deserves to be a queen loved by all. It barely even registers with her, what Petra had called Dorothea. Maybe it’d always been that way. Felix was right; she _is_ a fool. She should’ve just found a husband and settled into a life of bland routine because at least that’d be safe and normal and everything that this isn’t.

Or she could’ve been miserable for the rest of her life, reading stories about knights and staring out a bedroom window.

With Dorothea, there surely would be no such misery.

“I’m so— so happy, that you’re happy,” Ingrid still chokes, grabbing a hold of Dorothea’s hands. “That you aren’t entrenched by your need to marry is a wondrous thing! You deserve to live a fulfilling life with someone you love, who loves you back.”

Dorothea bites her lower lip. “I still have that ring you gave me, five years ago.”

“You— what?”

“I do.”

She can’t help it; Ingrid laughs through her tears, shaking her head in disbelief. “After all this time?”

“Well, it wasn’t as though I had the opportunity to think about love and marriage, after the war started. But now I— _we_ have all the time in the world, don’t we? That’s the kind of life that Edie wanted to fight for.”

Petra is nodding. “I… have also many inexperience, with these matters. I am knowing that I love Dorothea, but I am also loving my family, and country, and people. What kind of love is it? What does that love mean? These are questions that I would be liking the answers to, as well.”

“It sounds so messy…” Ingrid sniffles.

“Come to Brigid with us!” Dorothea quickly glances at Petra, emboldened with an affirming smile. “There’s plenty of work to be done over there. And you know—“

“—That you never liked getting involved with politics.” Ingrid squeezes her hands. “Neither did I.”

“I did say I would be liking to get to know you better,” Petra says. “What are you saying, Ingrid?”

“Ah, I think you mean, _what do you say_.”

“Yes, that.”

The last of Ingrid’s tears are drying up as she looks at these two women kneeling before her. Her eyes settle on Dorothea, drinking in the details of her face, her brow, the bridge of her nose, the color of her lips, that paper invitation in her breast pocket still so conspicuously there. She could see that smile for years to come. She could leave it all behind— the crumbling House of Galatea, that abandoned estate where she had once played knights with Dimitri, and Sylvain, and Felix, the familiar plains and woods and rivers that carry nothing but the regrets of the dead she could never face again.

There truly is nothing left for her in Galatea, or Fódlan for that matter. Felix always did have the right idea of things, damn him.

* * *

She catches a glimpse of Dorothea briefly pressing her lips to Petra’s cheek, before the queen strides away to speak to some representatives of Brigid who had accompanied her to Enbarr. It was such a simple gesture that it leaves her dumbfounded, but then Dorothea makes her way over and sits beside Ingrid, grasping her hand in hers. Something rubs against her skin.

She looks down, and sees a familiar ring upon Dorothea’s finger.

“People are going to get the wrong idea,” Ingrid says, already exasperated.

“So let them,” she says with a wink, and she leans in to kiss the the corner of her mouth. 


End file.
